All My Powers
by bcbdrums
Summary: "I am stupid and cocky. Even in the interest of justice...this time, it was not the correct decision. And the consequence...is more than I can bear." Short little one-shot. Set a few days after the events of 3GAR. For KaizokuShojo.
1. Loss

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All My Powers

© 2008 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

The author does not in any way profit from this work. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator.

For more information: submit a review or contact the author via private message.

* * *

All My Powers

A hospital is an interesting place, with its white walls and sterile corridors. It exudes cleanliness, and yet, people fear the place. I admit, I have always feared them. But that is not why I write.

Writing too is a fear of mine. The lack of interest in my past publications, and the success of my...my friend's romantic literary attempts have made me fear it. Which is why now, my writing is confined to this journal, never to see the light of day.

But, I digress. I write...to perhaps understand my fears. The hospital...it does frighten me. Not for reasons past on this date, however. In fact, this is an entirely new fear, and being inside the hospital is only contributing to it. Which isn't to say I am ill. No indeed, I am merely...ill in my spirit, over events days past.

We had been investigating a most curious case, the climax of which involved an American counterfeiter and murderer. I thank God--yes, the almighty God whom I have scarcely given a thought to before--that this man did not committ murder that night.

It is indeed a gift of Providence that the two shots he fired did not meet their marks, for that man is no amateur with a pistol.

However...the reason I am in hospital at the moment, is because one shot did not miss entirely. And, no, I am not injured. Not physically. Though I must clearly be suffering some mental trauma if I am to be rambling on like this.

Watson was hit. Only in the leg. The wound was quite superficial... But now, he has developed an infection. And it is...quite bad.

I am in his room, sitting at his bedside as I write this. It is early in the evening, just after six o'clock. He is...not well.

He is awake, but he is not speaking to me. His suffering is great enough that even the company of a friend does little to assuage it. And I am concerned.

I have never seen him like this before, so accosted by pain that he can hardly move, so miserable that conversation does nothing to help him...

Helpless. I feel so helpless! I can only watch his suffering. And pray. Oh dear God, make him well!

This place...does not help my feelings of insecurity. No matter how they struggle to make it appear friendly and safe, the feeling of death hangs over it all.

I must be losing my mind...to speak such words. And yet, they are true. Watching my friend suffer as he is, I feel the reality of death more than ever.

And I fear it. He sleeps now...but, will it be his last sleep? Will I ever speak to him again?

Disease is a terrible force, in that it is able to separate me from my friend when he is right beside me. What else has that power? I can think of nothing...not now, not while I'm watching him writhe in the throes of infection.

Who could have predicted this outcome? It was just a flesh-wound... And barely that......

Lestrade was just here. He is worried. I could see it in his eyes. I tried to make the situation sound less dire than I am communicating to these pages, but I don't believe I convinced him.

He talked distractedly of how amazing it was that Evans had been captured, and how brilliant a plan I had devised to discover the real plot of the mysterious man named Garrideb, extolling my powers all the while.

Brilliant. More like, stupid and cocky. What gives me the right to enter a man's home without his knowledge? Even in the interest of justice, it was not the correct decision. The consequence, an ill friend lying in the hospital bed beside me.

Silent, beside me... What if he never wakes? What if I never again get to look into his eyes, or hear his voice?

Right next to me, and yet, a world apart.

I am powerless.

* * *

_A/N: I know you're not quite as ill as that Kai, but, nonetheless, I'm powerless. Random therapy writing for me... Hopefully it'll make you feel better too...despite the angstiness XD_

_Get well soon... *hugs*_

_*looks around at other people and blushes* Oh...hello there ^^;_

_Random post-3GAR fic. It could have happened... *shrugs* And, as always...written on the fly with no editing._


	2. Recovery

_Voices…what were those voices? Not familiar. I wanted to open my eyes to see who was speaking, but I didn't seem to have that power anymore. I tried to move, and was aware that I was in bed. But this bed wasn't familiar. I could sense that it wasn't mine._

_What were those voices saying? That they had done everything? There was nothing they could do? It reminded me of myself, when I used to tell a poor unfortunate family that they're about to lose a loved one…_

_Everything felt heavy. So heavy…and I couldn't move. I wasn't sure that I wanted to. My head was throbbing and no doubt any motion would make it worse. I was swimming in darkness. Oh and the pain! I just wanted to sleep forever. It would be so easy…to sleep forever……_

_But…there was something calling me back. Another voice, this one familiar…pleading, and calling my name. I tried to focus on it, but it was so hard…_

_I forced myself through the fog and there was suddenly a grey light before my eyes. I still could not open them…but I had escaped the darkness. And I could hear the voice._

"Watson? Watson? You've got to come back to me. Watson, wherever you are, listen to me… Watson…_John_, you're the truest friend I've ever had. Can you hear me? In the depths of your soul, Watson, can you hear me? Watson—"

_The tone of the words changed suddenly and I strained to listen through the haze._

"I...oh God, help me. My friend is dying and I am powerless. Please…if You exist, spare his life. I don't understand friendship. I don't understand this feeling, but I know only You could have placed it within me. I've spent my life avoiding emotion and here is this…love, growing in my spirit…"

_The voice broke then, and I heard what sounded like a muffled sob. I wanted to console the person, but I could not open my eyes let alone lift a hand._

"God…I have been arrogant, stupid, and cocky. I've had no respect for Your creations, and now I see that I am as helpless as other men. I…am sorry. I'm so sorry…forgive me please. Watson, forgive me…it's my fault. I'm sorry…"

_The voice went silent. The voice of Sherlock Holmes. My friend. It was he who had called me back. He who needed me. And it was my life that was despaired of._

_I could not remember what had happened. All I knew, was that I needed to open my eyes. I suddenly could feel the warmth of the blankets, the weight of my eyelids. And my hands. I could feel them secure under the blankets, and I worked one slowly out into the cold air of the room. And I forced open my eyes. the light was blinding…_

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He was as still as a statue, but his rumpled clothing betrayed his recent activity. Sleepless nights no doubt, and many of them judging by the stubble on his chin.

I stretched my arm out and gripped his wrist as strongly as I could manage. He nearly jumped out of the chair when I did, but the light that came to his eyes when they locked with mine…

"Watson!" I had never heard such joy.

"Holmes…" I said weakly.

"I…are you…?" he stammered, too shocked for words for the first time since I had known him.

"What happened?" I asked, ending what would no doubt be an embarrassing situation for him.

"You don't remember?"

"No…" I coughed, and looked around the room. A hospital room. What _had_ happened? I wasn't in pain…except for something of a headache.

He removed my hand from his wrist and placed it on the covers. "Do you remember when we caught Evans last week?"

"Evans…" The drama at Nathan Garrideb's house suddenly returned to me. "But that wound…was just a scratch?" His eyes fell then, and I suddenly remembered. The wound had become infected, I had treated it myself, but it had not healed. And now I was in hospital, apparently with low prospects for survival.

Holmes must have seen the question in my eyes, for he then detailed the events between my last memory and the present, how the infection had spread and my fever rose to the point where the doctors declared me lost.

And yet now, I lived. And my friend abruptly ended his uncomfortable speech and dropped his eyes again to the floor.

"Well," I finally choked out, "it appears they were wrong." My friend only nodded, so I tried again. "I don't suppose you have a mirror? I am willing to bet I don't look half as dead as you do."

He cringed, and I realized my feeble attempts at humor were not going to fix this situation. Whatever it was exactly… I wasn't sure if this was a time when I should keep silent, or try to work the problem out of him.

I tried to roll over to look at him, but that only caused me pain and unfortunately I couldn't withhold a slight outcry, which caused my friend to jerk upward in alarm.

"Watson?!"

"I'm fine," I lied, and focused my attention on his worry-lined face. "Are you?" I challenged him, and forced him to hold my gaze. After what felt like an eternity, he released a shaky breath and dropped his eyes, but only for a moment.

"I must apologize to you Watson. I was terribly cocky going into that situation."

"It wasn't your fault. You had no power over Evans's actions."

He clenched his fists. "That's the—" He stopped suddenly and looked away fiercely and let out a low hiss. "I have no power, over anything at all. And because of my miscalculation you could have lost your life."

I looked at the weary slump of his shoulders, the dejected look on his face and my heart went out to him. Control was something he valued very highly. But in this case, he was devaluing himself.

"Holmes."

He didn't respond.

"Holmes," I said more insistently. He looked up. "Why do you think I am able to talk with you right now?"

He looked at me questioningly.

"If I understand it correctly, I was not expected to live." His frame grew rigid. "If that is so, how am I talking to you right now?" His confusion was evident, so I continued. "I wanted to die. I could feel myself dying."

"Your point, Doctor?" he said harshly.

"My point…is that I may have died, if not for a voice calling me back."

"…What?"

"I might have given in, but for a voice drawing me back. It was...magnetic. Impossible to resist." He looked at me as if he didn't believe me, and my headache was getting worse. "You are powerful Holmes. Powerful enough to draw me back from the grave," I said impatiently.

"Watson…"

"Holmes."

I stared him down with as much energy as I could muster, though I could not truly lift my head from the pillow. My head still throbbed, but I was not letting him sink into a depression over nothing at all. Especially when I wasn't in a position to fix it if he did.

He was still looking at me as if I was at death's door, and a thought occurred to me. I smiled at him. Just a reassuring look that I hoped would calm him. His eyes were searching my face, but what for I did not know. I just continued to try to convince him of my confidence in him.

He finally relaxed under my warm look, and I sighed with relief.

"It would seem then, that I have some powers I am not aware of," he said nonchalantly. I grinned. He was certainly aware. I wouldn't allow him to forget it. But Sherlock Holmes would never admit to having any command of the power of love.

* * *

_Author's notes: Okay, I know it's uber-fluffy, but that's me. And any resemblance to a certain novel by Catherine Marshall is totally intentional XD *runs away*_

_Hope you enjoyed :)_


End file.
